


if i had a voice i would sing

by auxanges



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Touch-Starved, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11020008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: Doesn’t matter what you give him—what anyone gives him, pale or pitch or anything in between, the fucker takes it all like it’s been gift-wrapped and tagged with his name and a middle finger. You’ve mapped it out, the way his system responds and lights up like a circuit board when you catch his wrists, his sides, his sea-parts that keep your attention for hours.You’d make fun of him, if you didn’t feel the same, on occasion.





	if i had a voice i would sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [endeofblood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/endeofblood/gifts).



> this was SUPPOSED to be a birthday gift for [ende](http://thii2ii2tupid.tumblr.com) but in keeping w tradition its two months late. the real april fool...........is me  
> ily thank you for being patient and blessing me with the Best sollux i have ever encountered in this brief mortal life of mine, heres a humble offering of him gettin the dick he deserves woo woo

It starts with Eridan leaning against the edge of your desk and announcing he has an idea, which is an immediate red flag in the corner of your vision. An impressive feat, considering half your vision is (technically) already red to begin with. His ideas cover an astounding array of potential, in your vast experience of whatever dance you’ve locked yourselves into, and you take your time looking up from your computer to meet his gaze. It’s intent, focused on you: Eridan’s got the fixation of a predator, when he wants to. You should know, you’ve picked him apart and put him back together in your mind more times than you’d like to admit. 

“Think very carefully,” you say, “before you waste my time with anything less than truly awesome.”

“I’m full of awesome things.”

“Okay, first of all, ew. And second, highly debatable.” You raise a hand to shove his face out of your periphery, but Eridan kind of—bats it away. 

You blink, several times in slow multicoloured succession, and reach again. He repeats the motion, smooth as anything. 

Come _on_. You let out a stupid little snarl of protest. “The _fuck_ —”

“No hands.” 

And here are the two things you keep remembering about Eridan Ampora. 

Thing one is that he follows touch like a starving man. Doesn’t matter what you give him—what _anyone_ gives him, pale or pitch or anything in between, the fucker takes it all like it’s been gift-wrapped and tagged with his name and a middle finger. You’ve mapped it out, the way his system responds and lights up like a circuit board when you catch his wrists, his sides, his sea-parts that keep your attention for hours. 

You’d make fun of him, if you didn’t feel the same, on occasion. 

The second thing is that he is fiercely, frustratingly competitive, and even if he melts into a violet puddle the second you get your hands on him he’s determined to win this. You see it in the sparks behind his eyes, the set of his jaw. 

In this, too, you are hideously alike. Which is why you raise both up in mock surrender, palms out before sitting on them. Eridan rolls his eyes, because of course—and then his own hands come to brace on either side of you, long fingers wrapped around the arms of the chair. This close, you smell the sea on him, the sharp spice of whatever cologne he uses, or maybe that’s just him, you never can tell, with the way it dizzies you, a little. 

Eridan kisses like everything else he does, enough passion to drive you crazy some days, to make you want to pry him apart and bleed him of it on others. Now, you settle for somewhere in between: you balance each other out in stupid sorts of ways that neither of you understand, but both of you appreciate, and it’s confusing enough to only fuel the whole mess that is your quadrant. 

Power prickles just beneath your skin, and you don’t know if he can feel it through your kiss or if he just knows you annoyingly well, because he says, “No psionics, either, wiseass.”

You show him your teeth; he runs his tongue over them, and you feel like you're dying, just a little. 

Eridan drowns the voices in your head out of a sheer desire to make himself be heard. It works—your senses are flooded with him, the tang of arousal, the breeze of fins when they flick reflexively and rustle your hair (“doesn’t count,” he mutters when you snicker). When he pulls away, you catch the thin orchid rings around his pupils, the way they bore holes into you, the curl of his mouth. 

Yeah, you maybe notice a lot of things. You maybe want to do more than notice. 

It’s you who surges forward, this time, as much as you can with his arms and challenge a makeshift barrier, and your glasses click together in a way that draws matching scoffs from the both of you. Eridan’s maneuvered himself up with his shins on the chair, straddling you without actually touching; his hips sway midair, though, betrayals of the self-control he tries at. 

(You’d rather be caught dead than admit to the comfort it gives, sometimes, to see someone react to you like this—to want you bad enough to test their own limits. The thought leaves you warm, settles low in your core, tight in your jeans.)

He deepens the kiss, tries to claim every part of you he can, at your jaw, at your hammering pulse. You are a live fucking wire. This is not news to the troll in your lap, who seems hell-bent on seeing you short-circuit—a fizzle and a red-blue-yellow clusterfuck, the inner workings of Sollux Captor laid bare without so much as a press of fingers. Not if you can help it. 

You catch his bottom lip between your teeth and suck; the sound he makes is something straight out of one of the pornos you keep behind four firewalls, downright obscene shit that cannot possibly be done on purpose. 

“ _Sollux_ ,” Eridan breathes, both syllables of your name, a neat little desperate pair. 

“Oh,” you reply in a daze, and your competition goes up in smoke. 

Synchrony. 

His hands are cold in a way that usually sets you to complaining, when you’re looking for things to complain about. They draw shivers from you stupid easy, on days where he takes you apart piece by golden piece. This is no different. You force in air through your fangs and run sparks over his arms, the flushed filaments at his neck. 

Eridan reacts with his whole body. Which is great, because you get to watch him bent over you like he’s at prayer, surrendered to wants and needs. It’s also not great—or doubly great, you haven’t made up your mind yet—because it means he grinds his hips against yours, a roll of urgency and you promptly forget how to talk, or breathe, or be anything but this. 

God, fuck, you need to touch him. _He_ needs to touch _you_ , he can’t stop, fingers dipping under the hem of your shirt and dragging along your sides. You’re skin and bones, a build destined for a helmsblock since your sorry ass hatched, but Eridan lingers over it all like it’s worth something more. 

He’s got this way of convincing you of the same.

You lift your ass inches off the chair to let your own hands roam over his sides, beneath irritating layers of fabric, following the trembling gashes between his ribs that marked him as something greater than you, once. Now it marks him as a puzzle, something to dissect with your eyes, with your fingers, with the electricity that lives in your nerves and your marrow. He moans when you run a blunted claw just beneath one; you feel a rush of air when they clamp shut. It sends shivers along your limbs, this semblance of control over his base system. The pair of you know it well. 

It’s another obnoxious similarity, really. Eridan reminds you of it when he bends again, grazes teeth over your throat, deft fingers working at your pants. It feels like lightning catches in your voice box, when you make a noise in response, and it comes out raspy. 

Eridan laughs against your neck. “Pretty.”

(Again, you’d rather throw yourself to the sharks than admit your opinion that it’s the other way around.) “You have a warped sense of the word.”

“Got a warped sense of lots a’ things,” he points out.

You concede with an eyeroll that encompasses your entire being—at least, the parts Eridan isn’t touching. He finally gets your pants undone: you’re already unsheathed, bulges coiling around one another at the exposure. Your face feels about ready to burn off. 

“Pretty,” ED says again, and you don’t have time to call him a liar before he runs a thumb along the underside of one. 

His body temperature is well below yours: it has you chasing cool relief, arching up into his touch, however little of it he’s giving you. 

When Eridan’s hand wraps around you proper, you bite down on a cry hard enough to taste blood; it sits hot and metallic on your tongue. He crushes his mouth to yours, again, like he can draw it into himself, whatever desperate need you have to have this, whatever makes you _you_.

He shifts, and you hear him fumble with his stupid jeans, feel the rush of his gasp against you when he frees himself. His fingers of his other hand work between your bulges—God, but it’s got you too close to a whine for your liking—and you, you want it, you want—

“More,” you manage against his jaw. It sounds tight; hoarse. Pleasure’s an unused range in your voice. “ _More_ , you selfish fuck, c’mon.”

“Oh, _I’m_ selfish.” You hear the laughter in his tone, feel the thrum it makes where your chests are touching. (You don’t remember him getting this close. You make a mental note to thank whoever manufactured this office chair out of apparent goddamn steel.) He withdraws his hand, a little—and one of your bulges goes with it, where it’s wrapped against his hand.

“ _Fuck_.”

You move to clap your hand over your mouth, before the surprise on Eridan’s face alerts you to the fact that he’s said it too. “Fuck,” he repeats, with enthusiasm, in case you hadn’t caught on the first time, or maybe because he just knows you. He keeps proving he does, anyhow. Your hand settles itself in his hair instead, programmer's fingers reaching up to hook into the regal curve of his horn. You’re rewarded with a sharp intake of breath that kind of feels like he directly stole it from your lungs.

He doesn’t need much more coaxing: you give it anyway, because while your competition’s been thrown away your _competition_ never stops, not really, and a ring of glowing blue surrounds his wrist, guides his hand over his own length. 

(Another thing you’d never willingly admit: if the whole “killing lusii to keep an ancient eldritch abomination fed” business hadn’t worked out, hearing him sing wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to you.)

You hear singing of a different kind, though, when he trembles against you. Eridan’s got a handful of walls that you enjoy crashing your way through, and they lay at your feet, under the legs of your chair, as the hand you’re not controlling braces roughly against your shoulder. From a purely physical standpoint, he’s stronger than you by right of blood, and it does him no good at all. It thrills you. 

“Sol, Sol,” goes the melody, and you finally decide tonight is a draw. 

Eridan’s bulge writhes between yours, coiling around one in a complete bastardization of the waves he’s born from. The heat has him keening; his hips stutter even as you rework his grip around you both, pumping your twined bulges with whatever constricted movement he has. From the expression in darkened eyes, the constriction isn’t something he’s complaining about. Your own breath comes in gasps, one hand along his side and the other on his horn like it’s the last thing anchoring you here, like Eridan isn’t coming apart in your lap. 

It’s a hell of a thought. But then again, he’s a hell of a pitchmate, your own personal hurricane. You’ve seen him ruin, and you ruin him in return, when he seeks it out. Generous of you, really. 

The notion makes you half-grin; your fangs butcher it, twist it along with your building orgasm into something fiercer. 

He tries to taste that, too. Quitting’s never been his strong suit.

(The more time you spend with him, the less it’s yours, as well.)

“Eridan.” Three syllables, this time, like he personally asked for an extra one when the Mother was handing out names. They taste like gun oil on your tongue; they taste like the antidote to their own poison.

Release hits you hard, with the way his hands move—psionics aside, he’s running on autopilot, finding what feels best and letting it happen without excess encouragement—and the rolling weight of his hips. You sink fangs into his shoulder, to muffle whatever embarrassing would have left you. 

His blood tastes much the same as his name does, like death and its laughter in its face. Every time you think you’ve finally solved Eridan Ampora he slips from between your fingers. 

It’s his fingers, here, now, though, and it’s your colour pooling over them. Royals always did like their golden things, you think, giddy on endorphins. He follows not long after, his back a smooth arc into the grip you have on his headgear, a sob that will follow you into dreaming wrenched from somewhere in his throat. 

You can never wear these pants in your life ever again. 

For what feels like an age, the pair of you hang in tandem; breathing that passes as heavy for the both of you follows different definitions. 

Eridan breaks the silence first. “Who won?”

“What the fuck do you mean, who won? It was a tie. You know. Two winners.”

“A tie is two losers. That means we gotta go again.”

You tilt your head up again to bump your frontpan against his and groan. “God, I’m gonna have to burn this chair.”

Your hurricane says, “got any more furniture you wanna burn?” 

**Author's Note:**

> u would think that for all that erisol is The otp i would have already written them by now but no. here we are. the Christening  
> @ me: finish your longfics u fool


End file.
